


Overdose Delusion

by Pixietails



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Other, but probably not, i literally jut wanted an excuse to write moriarty being a dick, maybe slight sheriarty, moriarty doin things moriarty does, that's all this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9444104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixietails/pseuds/Pixietails
Summary: The footfalls of a dead man had no business climbing his stairs, and the very thought stilled Sherlock’s hand.  His own reasoning dictated that it was only another imagined scenario, the virus in the data resurfacing.  Try as he might he could not escape the corruption; the burden was his alone to bear, and left him incurably haunted.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsnotlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsnotlove/gifts).



    Without John the flat was somehow noisier.  He had noticed the curious phenomenon the very first day, and he was forcibly reminded every time he had a moment to just stop.  Sleeping, eating, resting—they were all entirely new endeavors, and as time passed he began to wonder how he managed to get through such menial, mundane tasks before.

    Each idle pluck of the violin strings reverberated throughout the cavernous room.  Every car somehow managed to race past, each one more desperate than the last.  The steady _tick tick tick_ of the clock grew exponentially, with every movement of the second hand competing to be the loudest yet.  A drop of water falling into the sink shook the very walls, and the buzzing inside his head reached such a crescendo that it felt as though he might, in fact, split in two.  

    As the wind picked up outside, sending rain hammering against the windowpanes, he decided he had heard enough.  An escape—he needed an _escape._ Not a retreat into his mind palace, no, nor anything so physical as stepping foot outside.  With practiced motion, he rose to his feet, drew his bow across the violin strings, and let the music chase away the cacophony that was 221B Baker Street.

    The notes were familiar, comforting in their heartache.  A melody self-composed, a tune of both solitude and solace.  It drove away the more unpleasant sounds, and muted others yet.  Even the wind seemed to take pause as though to attend, and everything became slightly more manageable—a little bit comfortable, even, if he were to be so bold.  The notes wrapped around him, barricading him from everything that might distract him for a few, clarifying moments.

    And then he heard it, a sound that shattered his attempt at peace; it cracked like a _gunshot_ —

    Someone at the stairs.

    Stopped.

     _Listening_.

    But only for a moment: they soon began their gradual climb once more.

     Not Mrs. Hudson—the steps were a bit too heavy for that, and yet too light to be Mycroft.  He knew, of course, that either would have no qualms about interrupting him, and both for vastly different reasons.  Neither did the footsteps belong to a client; they were far too slow and too deliberate for that, and in that vein he could also eliminate both John and Lestrade.  They belonged to a man, someone who had taken those very stairs before in the same, crawling ascent.

           _Creak…_

_creak…_

_creak…_

    The gradual approach felt intimately familiar, but it did not leave him with any feeling of anticipation, but trepidation all the same.  The footfalls of a dead man had no business climbing his stairs, and the very thought stilled Sherlock’s hand.  His own reasoning dictated that it was only another imagined scenario, the virus in the data resurfacing.  Try as he might he could not escape the corruption; the burden was his alone to bear, and left him incurably haunted.

    Day after day he had run the mental experiments necessary to reach the conclusion that Jim Moriarty was indeed dead.  Everything that had happened since Sherlock’s own imagined suicide was nothing more than a posthumous joke; a diabolically clever and intricate game.  Had Moriarty known Sherlock would survive?  Surely such a detail would not escape his ever expanding grasp.  This was his punishment from beyond the grave, the corruption in the system that would continue to cause damage.  He was little more than an imprint, and impossibility at that, and it was with confidence that Sherlock spun on his heel, prepared to see nothing but blank space.

     _Be_ gone _already; leave me alone.  I have work to do._

“What’s with that look, now?  You can’t be that surprised to see me.  Is there something on my face?  You know...you should really stop staring—it’s _rude_.”

     _An impossibility_.

    Jim Moriarty was dead.

    “Oh.  I see…”  Heavy disappointment laced the words, causing Moriarty’s shoulders to slump in an overly childish fashion.  “Well really, Sherlock, what’s the point of dropping in unannounced if you’re going to just stand there staring like you’ve seen a ghost?”

    Disappointment faded, replaced by a very careful display of dawning realization.  Surprise made its way into Moriarty’s features, his mouth dropping open ever so slightly for dramatic effect.  The knuckles of his left hand came to rest against his parted lips in a display of mock concern, and it seemed to Sherlock it was all he could do not to smile and ruin the facade.

    “ _Have_ you seen a ghost, Sherlock?” he whispered.  “Dear me.  And here I thought you’d had it all neatly figured out and wrapped up with a little bow.  What a _disappointment_.”  

    The last word was groaned, its childlike quality falling upon deaf ears, and yet Moriarty did not seem concerned by such a fact.  He moved idly around the room, shuffling through papers, books and other personal items, all the while audibly popping little bubbles with his gum.  It was almost as though he were overly comfortable in the room, and hadn’t missed a day’s visit himself.

    “So many years later and you’re still so _boring_.  Haven’t you been playing the game?  Just what do you _do_ with yourself all day—”

    “You’re dead,” Sherlock interrupted..  “How can you be standing here, I saw you die.   _Why aren’t you dead?_ Why are you still _here_?”

    The words echoed through his mind in stereo; he had said them before, in the same room, in the same _place_ , but in another reality.  Another time, one that had never actually existed, not for him—it was a world he had created for himself in an attempt to determine whether or not Moriarty could have survived, whether the threat upon them was credible or something to perceive as such.  The conclusion of his experiment had been concrete; there was no possibility of survival.  Moriarty was not the so-called abominable bride: he was not trying to make a point with smoke and mirrors.

    He was _dead_.

    “That’s interesting.  Huh.  Tell me; do I _look_ dead?  Do I look very pale?  Is the back of my head blown out?  What’s it like looking through your eyes right now, I wonder?  Must be _pretty scary_ …”

    The grin that split his features was nothing short of devilish; controlled, yet curiously unhinged.  It was the same expression Sherlock had witnessed before in his experiment, and it was distressing to him that he suddenly began to wonder what was reality and what might be imagined.  The room around him seemed to flicker in and out of focus, bringing with it glimpses of another era, of another London he had never truly been part of.  

    Sherlock blinked several times in an attempt to chase away the image, his heart suddenly pounding with such persistence that it seemed very likely to fail.  The slight tremor of his hands, the racing pulse and sudden cold sweat—all authentic side effects of fright.  And yet it was not true fear what he felt, but confusion instead.  Was the man in front of him real?  Was he tangible, irrefutable proof that Jim Moriarty lived?

    Or was it another delusion?

    The flat flickered in and out of existence again, a sort of strobing effect that hurt the eyes and troubled the mind.  No amount of effort could shake the vision away, and even when Sherlock closed his eyes the darkness provided no comfort.  But he could take a moment and try to make sense of the situation, and lay the facts out as best he could.

    Jim Moriarty had died on that hospital rooftop; he had witnessed it with his own eyes, observed the body after death and could not be convinced otherwise.  No sleight of hand could deceive him on such a scale, and yet the man continued to make appearance after appearance, haunting him in every sense of the word.  His presence felt both genuine and preposterous; too corporeal to be a simple figment of the imagination, but altogether inconceivable.  He lived inside Sherlock’s mind and to find the answer he would have to start once more at the beginning.

     A dream was out of the question, as Sherlock was sure he was still conscious, but a hallucination was not.  Yet he had been quite careful, or so he had thought; measured doses, taken in proper intervals; careful application; precise numbers.  The interactions should have created a higher elevation of thinking, not apparitions and illusions.

    Could he have overdosed?

     _Cocaine….injected intravenously, seven percent solution, 200 mg._

_Morphine....prescription (not mine) pill, crushed and swallowed, 60 mg._

_Nicotine...two patches, applied to left forearm, 42 mg._

The list was short; shorter than it had been on the plane and enough for his body to handle.  An overdose was not impossible, but unlikely, which lessened the credibility of a hallucination.  Which meant there truly _was_ a man standing in his sitting room.  Which meant—

   “God, are you _really_ trying to ignore me now?  Closing your eyes won’t make me go away—”  The sing-song quality of his voice only served to make Sherlock feel less stable, and every attempt to block the sound only seemed to amplify the volume instead.  

    Footsteps drew near, and when Sherlock opened his eyes he tensed for what he might see.  Surprisingly Moriarty’s presence was not the most concerning thing in the room, but rather the decor; the personal effects.  The sitting room had become stable once again, locking into the present rather than the hypothetical past, and that was at least one step down.  

    Not an overdose at all; simply a mental _break._

Air flowed back into Sherlock’s lungs, and the pounding of his heart soon eased into its normal rhythm.  There was no sense in letting himself succumb to fear and paranoia, not when a logical explanation had to exist.  He had spent months working out what was truth and what was fancy; a few more minutes would not unravel his deductions.

    Regardless of whatever he might be lead to think, regardless of whatever he might imagine he saw, he had already come to the only possible conclusion.  He was to speak with a phantom, a memory of times past, and nothing more.

    “D’you mind?” Moriarty drawled at length, dark eyes gazing up at Sherlock reproachfully.  He was, evidently, tired of being ignored.  “Only you haven’t invited me to sit down, so I decided I’d take it upon myself to make myself comfortable.  I’d like to be _consistent_.  You understand.”

    The faintest attempt at a smile was Sherlock’s only answer.  He stepped aside, allowing Moriarty to drop himself into his favorite chair, and the effect was instantaneous.  Rather than surreal it was sobering, snapping Sherlock out of his reflections and bringing his usual foul temper hurrying back.

   “Are you going to show up every time I want to get high?” he snapped, seating himself opposite his uninvited guest.  “It’s beginning to get tiresome.  You’d think one of these times I would be able to just _relax_ without someone trying to get inside my head.”

    “Do I show up for you a lot then?” Moriarty asked.  “How flattering.  How many times have you actually seen me?  I can’t keep track of _all_ of your fantasies, Sherlock, but I do appreciate the effort on your part.”

    “Why are you here this time?”

    “Aren’t _you_ supposed to tell me that?  Come on now, at least make my visit worthwhile.  Is it a dream, or reality?  Am I here or am I dead?  That’s the big question and the world is just _dying_ to hear the answer.”

    For several seconds Sherlock only watched him, his eyes traveling across his form in search of whatever small signs he might find.  No tapping fingers, no apparent restlessness.  His gaze was carefully diverted to the mantle, the knife in particular.  Not a weapon, not a threat—though that logic only applied should Moriarty be actually present and alive.  Still, it wouldn’t do to be hasty in his deductions, and he had had long conversations with less than an apparition on many occasions.

    “I’ve been through it several times; frontwards and backwards, up and down.  Without the use of some _very_ clever machinations, there is absolutely no way you could be alive.”

    “Don’t you think I’m clever enough to deceive the Great Sherlock Holmes?”

    Dark eyes found his own, but Sherlock did not turn away.  “You didn’t.  You _died_.  I’ve solved it and I’m thoroughly finished with the subject.  There’s no reason to delve into what ifs and how could he have dones.”

    “And yet...I’m still here…”

   Sherlock waved a dismissive hand.  “Yes, in my _mind_ ; just as you said, you’re a virus.  There’s no way to quarantine you yet, let alone remove you.  There may be remnants of you left behind, but I know for a fact that _you are dead_.”

    “But do you really?  Be serious; if you were sure that I was dead I wouldn’t be here, we both know that.  I _couldn’t_ be.  You can lie to yourself all you want, but you can’t lie to _me_.”

    The rain came lashing against the windows once again, drumming a steady beat against Sherlock’s skull.  It became harder to focus, harder to keep himself from appearing anxious.  Was there something he had overlooked?  Something he didn’t realize still nagged at him?  A new piece of the puzzle would change the picture entirely, and if there _was_ something still missing his subconscious wouldn’t just let it go.  There was no other explanation; he hadn’t completely solved the case.

    “Ohh, there’s that look!”  Moriarty leaned forward excitedly, life sparkling in his deep brown eyes.  “That _thinking_ look, so clever, so _sexy_.  You’re doing it again, aren’t you?  I can see it.  I can _see_ it.  Trying to get rid of me by trying to figure out how I could have done it.  Well I have some bad news for you if that’s what you’re trying to do.”

    “Be _quiet_.  I know why you’re here; you’re telling me I’ve missed something, I had to have.  It doesn’t change the inevitable outcome, but there’s still something I haven’t figured out, and until I have you’re not going to leave me alone.”

    “Darling, if you think I’m going to leave you alone because you comb through the details and find one more trivial thing then you’re even more boring than I thought.  And you _are boring_ , Sherlock.  Ordinary.  Anyone would put a gun in their mouth after enough time with you.”

    As if to punctuate his point, Moriarty opened his mouth and stuck one finger inside, pretending as though he were firing a gun.  With his other hand he mimed an explosion behind his head, slumping dramatically against the seat when Sherlock’s stoic expression did not change.  To the detective he was a distraction; a wrench in the works.  

    With a deep breath Sherlock attempted to freeze the world around him and erase the unnecessary scene that lay before his eyes.  He brushed away the wall behind Moriarty, leaving the canvas temporarily blank as he shifted through photographs in his mind for the right location.  If he set the scene and walked through it all once more, he could discover the missing element—the final piece he had chosen to overlook.

                             _St. Bart’s rooftop…_

_15 January, 2012…_

He could see it all clearly, as though he were standing on the rooftop at that very moment.  The wind had picked up, bringing with it a light rain.  Blood ran across the cement, pooling in the grout; little red rivers spreading outward from the deceased’s body.  Moriarty was dead, still smiling victorious, unconcerned by his own demise.  

     _Beretta 92SF Inox._

_15 round capacity; 14 in the clip._

_9mm parabellum round; one shot._

 

_Exited through parietal bone; instant death._

**_Survival not possible._**

 **** _No blood packs—_

_—no switching—_

_—no misdirection._

    At the time he had not thought to physically take a pulse, but it was clear that Moriarty could not have lived through the gunshot.  Sherlock had never taken his eyes off the man during his suicide, and even through his shock he knew he was looking at a corpse.  The thought that Moriarty would take his life had, naturally, had crossed his mind, but such an action was a failsafe; a last ditch effort.  He had not fully expected him to do it.

                                                                                                                                                                             _Nothing in his right hand._

_Nothing in his pockets—_

_—nothing except a_ phone _._

_HTC Incredible S—Android._

_Useful?_

_Missing piece?_

_No._

**_No change._ **

    Every angle he viewed provided the same details as each time before.  Nothing new mysteriously bubbled to the surface, and try as he might Sherlock could not force anything to connect differently than it had before.  The rooftop, the snipers, Moriarty’s network—even John. Nothing changed, and he couldn’t figure out _why_.

    “It doesn’t make any _sense!_ ” Sherlock snapped, slamming the palms of his hands against both armrests.  “I’ve gone through _everything_ ; what could I possibly have missed?  I don’t understand!”

    “Of _course_ you don’t Sherlock—and I’ll let you in on a little secret.  Come here; come on.   _Closer_ , my god—I won’t bite.  Well, not unless you _wanted_ me to...”  The resulting grin was enough to send Sherlock reeling back, but Moriarty didn’t seem to be deterred in the slightest.  Instead, he slipped out of his chair and approached Sherlock, bending down so that he could rest a hand on one of the armrests.  It came off as a dominant sort of gesture, but at the same time he was sure to leave a clear path for the detective should he choose to escape.  It was important to at least allow him to _believe_ he was safe.  Important to let Sherlock remain _in control_.

    Sherlock felt himself tense as Moriarty leaned ever closer, his whispered words hot against the shell of his ear.  “It’s because you _didn’t_ miss anything, my dear.”  

    In an attempt to gauge Sherlock’s reaction, Moriarty pulled back—just enough. Enough to see the way his jaw had set.  Enough to see the glassy shine of his eyes.  A user, not an _addict_ —his mind was heightened by his drug use, not destroyed.  And yet he still couldn’t see.  Couldn’t see what was _right in front of him_ …

    A frown etched itself onto Moriarty’s features, though it was not from disappointment.  He couldn’t even say he was truly _bored_ , but he would admit that he had expected a little bit more.  But what exactly had he wanted?  Surprise?  Distress?  Resistance?  Or was he really just a reminder?  Nothing more than a ghost, come to pay a visit.

    “Now...just one more thing before I go…”

    He paused, cocking his head to one side in thought.  For a moment their eyes locked—until Sherlock found himself briefly distracted by the way Moriarty ran his tongue leisurely across his lips.  He had seen the man do it before, multiple times, and while it was hardly the most offensive thing he had ever witnessed, it was disturbing nonetheless—something like a snake waiting to attack.

     At least he wasn’t teasing the barrel of a revolver this time.

     But Sherlock had let his attention wander for a moment too long.  Despite his attempts to sharpen his senses, his reflexes were not as they should have been.  Moriarty was able to strike swiftly, piercing the soft flesh of his target’s neck with the heavy syringe in his left hand.  Before Sherlock could even attempt stop him he depressed the plunger, injecting the liquid within, victorious.

    “You _really_ shouldn’t leave these things lying around—especially not with another dose all ready to go.  That’s _dangerous_ , Sherlock.  Anyone could pick it up and hurt themselves...or someone else.”

    The hypodermic syringe clattered to the floor as Sherlock staggered to his feet, one hand clapped over the injection site.  Almost immediately the skin began to swell, and the resulting pain nearly brought tears to his eyes: he knew the needle had missed a vein, but he could not be certain that it had missed his carotid artery.  Even the lack of blood did not assuage his concerns.  

    If he _had_ hit the artery he would be in mortal peril.

    Could he reach his phone in time?

    How could he have let Moriarty gain the upper hand?  He was dead, he didn’t _exist_ , he was _g o n e…_

The room gave a terrifying lurch and Sherlock stumbled, reaching out to grab whatever he could to steady himself.  Papers slipped beneath his hand, and all too suddenly he felt himself falling, crashing into the ground amidst the contents of his desk.  His heart pounded once again, and through the haze beginning to cloud his mind he realized that even a properly administered dose would have meant too much for his system.

    At best he would overdose.  Perhaps not lethally, but his tolerance was not as high as it had once been.  And at worst...well, there were multiple factors, and without phoning for an ambulance he would be forced to wait and see.  Trapped in his own body.

    The rush did not come on quickly; its onset was slower, somehow crueler than usual.  It ate away at him, burning at his throat and clawing at his chest.  Still no signs of blood against his fingers, only swollen flesh—a warning sign all on its own.  He was vaguely aware of his own voice, and must have tried to convey his distress without realizing.  A gentle hand smoothed over his hair in what was meant to be a calming gesture, easing him into coming darkness.

    “Shh...shh, just let go.  It’s so much easier when you decide to let go.  Death really isn’t so bad.  You’ve been here before—aren’t you getting tired of it?  Almost _dying_?  How many times am I going to have to repeat myself?  Let go this time, Sherlock.  Everyone’s getting tired of pulling you back from the edge, and no one’s going to cry for you anymore.”

    Death was not an unfamiliar foe for Sherlock; he had been brought back from the brink several times, and each one left him feeling marginally weaker for it.  More than once he had overdosed; both his brother and Lestrade had been forced to watch as the drugs attempyed to destroy both his body and mind.  He had faced deadly foes, and worse still deadly _friends_.  The bullet to his chest _had_ technically killed him, stopping his heart for several moments..  Coincidentally it had been Moriarty’s voice that had given him the will to fight then as well…

    The flat had become curiously noisy once again.  The ticking clock.  The racing cars.  The pounding rain.  Each sound mingled together, melding into a bizarre sort of symphony that carefully lulled him into inevitable unconsciousness.  

    Hours passed.  When Sherlock opened his eyes once more, he found himself lying in the middle of a darkened room, very much alone and feeling weaker than ever.  It had been days since he had eaten, and even more still since he had allowed himself a proper rest.  His body couldn’t handle the abuse, and it amazed him that it had held out so far.  He really would end up dying if he kept pushing his luck, but that hardly gave him reason to ease off.

    Sitting up, Sherlock brought a hand to his neck, finding the flesh smooth and cool; no signs of swelling or infection.  His arm was sore from his previous use, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had accidentally overdosed himself.  His drug-induced delusions were frighteningly real at times; it wouldn’t have been the first time he had dreamt up something wildly fantastic in an attempt to soften unpleasant memories.

    Standing was even more difficult, but with enough focus and effort he managed.  Night had fallen, and the storm outside was still raging, leaving little light for Sherlock to navigate.  His limbs did not seem to want to cooperate, and the effort it took for him to reach the light switch was almost embarrassing.  Sometimes he found himself relieved that John had not opted to move back in, for he did not at all miss his scolding.

    A single flick of the switch brought light flooding back into the room, illuminating the chaos Sherlock had created in his delirium.  His laptop was overturned and dark, resting on top of scattered newspapers and files; the side table that sat next to his favorite chair had somehow been overturned; his syringe had rolled both across the room and under the sofa...

    ...and there, scrawled across the front door by use of a blade, were two simple words that sent a chill through Sherlock.  They were intimately familiar, only this time much less a question than they were a command.

     _Miss me._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you ship it, Liz


End file.
